


Nox Turbida

by minnie313



Series: Tempestates [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnie313/pseuds/minnie313
Summary: AU! April 1945, around Dresden, Germany. The commanders of the British Wizarding forces are preparing to attack Grindelwald in his last refuge, to put an end to his evil once and for all. During the war, Junior Auror McGonagall does reconnaissance to ensure their mission's success. Book 1 in the Tempestates(1) series (eventually ADMM).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello everyone, my ADMM muse has recently paid me a little visit and it seems I can’t get away from her  I got it into my brain to do a multi chapter series centred on Minerva McGonagall and ADMM, and with an idea of what to put into each book. This is a strange day for me, people, since I usually try to not undertake the task of a multi chapter fic (with my tendency to not finish them, it is understandable).  
> This series does not care much for HBP or DH, nor does it take Pottermore’s character backgrounds into account. Reader, you are therefore warned. Don’t come flaming me because I do “non-canon”.
> 
> (1) Tempestates: Latin: The Storms/The Tempests  
> (2) Nox Turbida: Latin: Stormy night 
> 
>  
> 
> Please give me some feedback, I like to know how I'm doing

The moon gave perfect cover to the silver tabby cat quietly going back to her camp. Twice had she taken that route already, and she deemed it safe enough. She could not, however, rest or run recklessly through what was left of the forest that used to surround the area. Despite her exhaustion, the feline stayed alert and padded her way to safety relying only on instinct and sight.

While cats have notoriously fine sense of smell and hearing, here they would not be of much help. Her nose was charged with the smell of gunpowder, dirt, torn wood and the dust of fallen buildings, permeating the air. Her ears, full of the sound of guns, canons, and rockets echoing in the distance.

However, she would not stop until she had reached her destination. Trying to avoid distraction, she quickly put back to the recesses of her mind the thoughts that came up with the idea of ‘camp’: report, rest, hot food, drink, Albus, comrades.

The tweaking of a branch suddenly echoed near enough that she heard it through the constant racket. Startled, the tabby queen stopped. Ready for anything that may come, all senses on maximum alert, she quickly scanned the perimeter around her and hid in the shadowy trunk of tree as a German patrol passed her by.

She waited until she was sure to be out of their sight and out of their earing then, reassured but still jumpy from her experience, the cat increased her pace. Forty-five minutes later, dawn was breaking as she entered the British camp, under the watchful eyes of four men wearing black clothes, a wooden stick in their hands.

“’Morning, McGonagall” said the man on the left as the cat suddenly disappeared, leaving a dark-haired woman in her place.

“’Morning, Shafiq, Wood, Carson, O’Donell”

“Better hurry up, McGonagall” said the one named O’Donell, a tall fellow with sharp eyes and an even sharper jaw “They’ll be waiting for your report”

The lady who had previously been a tabby cat nodded and hurried to Command, speeding through the security tests. It was a relatively spacious military issue tent that had one day been some sort of khaki green, but was now of an unidentifiable colour because of the various particles hanging in the air, a mix of powdered clay, dust, chopped wood, metal and spell residue, that made your eyes water, your hair dirty and your throat itch.

The witch’s boots – for such a lady could only be a witch – were sinking in the sticky mud, but it seemed to hardly inconvenience her, nor was the dirt adorning the lower part of her clothes. After months of wading in the grey muck of Eastern Germany, one got used to such little discomforts, especially since no piece of clothing would dry in the humid spring weather, and one was certainly not about to signal the position of the camp to the Enemy by using any kind of spell. Being dirty was indeed a small price to pay for staying alive. Here, on the borders of Grindelwald’s territory, no one was safe.

The witch lifted part of the Command centre’s tent, and reported to the orderly, a stern lady formerly Chief Auror McKinnon’s secretary, who quickly announced her to the three men present:

“Junior Auror McGonagall reporting, sir”

“Very well, Rowley, send her through.”

The young witch, repeated the address, as Chief Aurors McKinnon and Abbott turned toward her, then nodded, acknowledging her presence. They did not, however, ask right away for her report. They seemed to wait for the third man to speak up. He was a middle-aged wizard with a long beard and shoulder-length hair, that had both seen better days. He had the gaunt look of a man whose sleep was relentlessly elusive, and the dead eyes of a commander who knows just how many lives were taken on both sides of the war for any significant victory.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, the exhausted man whose name made the Enemy shake with either fear or fury turned toward her and asked if she had been followed. Had it been any other circumstance, had he been any other man, Junior Auror McGonagall would have at the very least scoffed, or would have hexed him, at the high of her temper. But this was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and they were engaged in a merciless war against an enemy whose camp was only a few hours away.

“No, sir, I have been especially careful since this mission was so crucial. I am positive I have not been followed. However, I have encountered a German patrol 45 minutes from here, around this area” she said, showing them the zone on the map in the centre of the room. “But they did not see me. However, we should select another route to the Enemy’s territory.”

They were the four of them standing around the map, six metal chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable to McGonagall were placed around it. But none of them could have examined it properly at candlelight had they been sitting, no matter how many times McGonagall or Dumbledore pushed their glasses back up their noses a notch.

“Have you found their camp, McGonagall?” asked McKinnon.

“I have. Most of his forces seem to have retreated into this part of the country, East of Dresden. I don’t know where the others are.”

The Chief Auror nodded and examined the map. There was a big Medieval fort, easily defendable, but very difficult to take.

“You’re right, they are probably here” said Abbott.

“McGonagall, on your next shift, you’ll check out the safety of new routes to this Fort. When you’ve finished with reconnaissance, we’ll put together a plan of attack. I doubt they’ll make an outing, even if we try to force them out.”

“They’ll stay in the Fort and send muggle scouts to find us” added Dumbledore.

“Or deal with us with muggle artillery” finished McGonagall, who was often quite right in her hypothesises.

Dumbledore acquiesced with a nod.

“We have no time to lose, but those of us who have not slept properly for the last two days should really get some rest. You too, Junior Auror McGonagall” he added with a faint smile.

“Get some food in the mess, then get some rest, McGonagall. We’ll send you back in 12 hours” added Wood.

The witch nodded politely at her superiors before getting out of the tent with a sigh. 12 hours. 12 hours before her next mission. Glancing back at Albus Dumbledore’s tired figure, she drowsily made her way to the mess.


	2. Chapter 2

Minerva Elisabeth McGonagall – such was the name of the Junior Auror – had wolfed down her ration, and the warm food, while not particularly tasty, had been very restorative. The dreamless 7h30 of sleep she had managed to catch had been necessary if slightly too deep. Exhaustion had indeed left her with the impression that the sky had fallen on her head just as she awoke.

She cleared her poor head as much as she could by passing a wet sponge on her face and neck, while reflecting on the previous meeting. Although it had gone well, Dumbledore had seemed worn out, not only physically, but mentally as well. She knew that he probably did not sleep much, or enough – that much was certain. “And the little sleep the man gets is ridden with nightmares. Anyone can see it in his eyes!” she thought.

As she did her ablutions, she thought upon how different he now looked from the man she had met ten years ago. In the year 1935, when she was a young first-year Gryffindor, Albus Dumbledore had the air of magnificence of a benevolent – if slightly crazy – genius. He was incredible in his colourful clothing extravaganza from the top of his pointy hats to the tip of his leather boots; and everything matched. A genial grandfatherly figure to some, he was quite simply at the heart of the staff, being at the same time Transfiguration teacher, Head of Gryffindor House and Deputy Headmaster. His simple presence maintained discipline, he was rarely crossed and raised his voice on ever rarer occurrences.

To Minerva, during all her years at Hogwarts, he had been THE teacher, i.e. her favourite. Transfiguration, her favourite subject. She owed him much, not the least bit the fact that she was now an Animagus: it was under his tutelage that her talent expressed itself the most. In her last two years, they had also become quite closer – nothing untoward, but a friendly relationship between mentor and mentee, with, if she was honest with herself, some attraction on her part. His deep voice had drawn her in instantly.

But even in those last years at Hogwarts, when he tutored her, he had become obviously preoccupied. It had begun around June 1942, before the Russians had been able to stop Hitler and Grindelwald’s progression. She surmised it was around that time that he became involved with the war effort, like many others. The Enemies’ advances had been far too great on the Muggle or on the Wizarding front, in the West or in the East. Many wizards and witches had thus seen their involvement as a mandatory act of honour, patriotism or of a way to defend their homes and families, or even to get revenge.

Her thoughts turned back to Dumbledore, on whose shoulders relied their camp and the survival of a whole part of their world. As she lifted the border of her tent and looked up to the grey sky, Minerva could only hope that the war would end quickly and with minimum casualties, for all of their sakes.


	3. Chapter 3

Ever since she had come to the camp on the UK Wizarding frontline, Minerva had taken up a morning routine. Every morning, she got up precisely three hours before her shift began. Then, she transformed into her cat form, and made rounds around the tents. Officially, she wanted to check the security, know the camp on the back of her paw so as to be able to hide in the camp, and help whoever needed it if it all went pear shape.

Her journeys were always very informative. Not only did she learn about the camp’s geography, she also learned many things about the strategies cooked up by London’s HQ, and how they really were faring in the war. She also learned a great deal about her comrades’ wellbeing.

One day, for example, she had dared to venture into the healers’ tent and had been horrified at the state of one or two people from the other REC team as they were brought in. Such a gruesome spectacle! The three men had gone on a trip to rendezvous with the UK Muggle troops nearest camp, to establish a liaison with them and their HQ. The muggle camp was suddenly targeted by the German Muggles’ heavy artillery. The REC team had been lucky to make it out in their state.

After her rounds, Minerva always got back to her tent in time to see her tent mate rise. Poppy Pomfrey was a field Mediwitch of Minerva’s age and had also faced the challenges of being a woman in an Auror camp.

The two of them always sacrificed to some kind of morning hygiene, to the very most they could in this unsanitary environment: a short sponge bath to get rid of the particles clinging to the skin of their faces and getting in unmentionable parts. Today was no different. As they got into their uniforms, the two witches joked lightly, mentioned what they would do on their shift giving away as little as they could. The general order was to keep everything under wraps. According to Poppy, it went to ridiculous lengths, seeing as even the fact that a wounded colleague had received a sponge bath was under the seal of secrecy.

They would then both be off to the mess tent – if one could call it so. It was at the most some khaki canvas attached to four metal stakes. It occupied as much space as could be spared in a camp like theirs, and the mess officers did wonders with the Auror rations. Like the British Muggle field rations, those were comprised of spam, crackers, chocolate, biscuits, tea, sugar, oatmeal, meat broth, and even matches. Indeed, one would think that the use of matches would be completely lost on Witches and wizards. In this case, however, with no magic to be used in the camp, matches had to do.

On one corner of the mess, stood the table where officers on mess duty served tea and whatever the “Cook” had come up with to make their rations eatable. Usually, it looked like a gooey mess of mashed up cardboard, but it was wholesome and extremely nutritious – and sugar made it palatable. After a while, one got used to its exotic texture and taste. The rest of the tent was full of the issue khaki camp benches and tables; the “kitchen” was under another tended canvas.

It was at that point that Minerva and Poppy separated and went their own way. The Mediwitch went to sit with other medics or with some of the Aurors concerned with the security of the camp’s perimeter. Minerva either joined her fellow scouts or sat with other people she was acquainted with before the war.

This morning, they both had had no other option but to sit beside O’Donell and Moody. Internally, Minerva sighed with aggravation. While Poppy always delighted in the two teammates’ stories, Minerva herself usually got fed up very quickly by the way they got to such lengths to impress the female of the species. Really! It was as if they were trying to pass of as heroes from the Trojan war!! She had never much cared for it, except when her older brother Matthew had read her the _Iliad_ in the original Greek.

Today, it seemed that they were as boisterous as ever, much to her chagrin. At one point, Moody got so excited that he made a great motion with his right arm and…

SPLASH!!!!!

With a mighty sound, the bowl, still full of the gooey mixture, went flying and landed on Professor Dumbledore’s face, covering it with a thick layer of instant oatmeal.

“What a violent way to make sure that I’m eating my breakfast, Auror Moody.” Said the man with blue eyes twinkling under the thick goo – how he seemed to always find humour in such situations was beyond her, but she found it endearing.

Moody’s face got instantly red, and he began to bluster, letting out a jumbled stream of apologies under the shocked eyes of Poppy Pomfrey, and the horrified eyes of Stephen O’Donell: his hero’s face was covered in some sort of cooling porridge from the tip of his eyebrows to the end of his beard. Minerva was biting her lower lip trying not to burst out laughing. She took her napkin and got up.

“Here, Professor, let’s … get … you… cleaned up”

She took off the most of the “porridge”, brushing it off with the napkin, and putting it off, then putting it back in Moody’s bowl. Dumbledore’s eyes were still twinkling, and as his eyes gazed at her, she could feel her cheeks getting slightly warmer.

“Ah, Auror McGonagall, I knew I could count on you to help me out of this ‘sticky’ situation” he said, smiling. She gave a little laugh and answered:

“Of course, Professor, you know you can always count on me”

Suddenly, great booming noises! The earth shaking under their feet! Without thinking, Minerva pulled Dumbledore down, and spared little thought to their three comrades, shaking with fear as she was. Dumbledore held her shaking hand in his, then, and she felt just the slightest bit reassured. He was there, and they were both alive. They would make it.

All around them, panic! A never stopping racket of screams, exploding rockets and the hiss announcing them. Fire! Black dirt going up in the air, smoke poisoning their lungs and prickling their eyes and noses. And everywhere, the stench of death and burning flesh.

“McGonagall, get them out of here!!” yelled O’Donell, gesturing wildly to Poppy and Dumbledore. She could barely make out what he was saying. “Moody, go with them!!”

Moody tried to protest but their cries were drowned out by the noise. Minerva took the three others and they went about to get out of the mess, while O’Donell joined Shafiq and tried to evacuate the camp. Minerva lead them, as a member of the REC team, she knew more about the camp than the others – it was for this that she had made her rounds, right? Their wands were at the ready, but they were disoriented enough that using them might have been dangerous. The attack had taken them all by surprise: decided by the muggles or not it was a direct sign that the Enemy had found them, but how? Junior Auror Minerva McGonagall did not dwell on the issue, and focused on getting her three comrades out of harm’s way.


	4. Chapter 4

Out of the hundred and fifty people that had constituted that camp, and lived within its confines for the last weeks, only about fifty had managed to escape. Those who had not been blasted off by the bombing had been taken or killed by Grindelwald’s men. The survivors had established a provisory camp in the ruins of the nearby muggle city. Field Nurse Poppy Pomfrey had rounded up the wounded and the healers, then Field Medic O’Clare had taken charge of the Field Hospital. Auror Alastor Moody had been put in charge of the camp’s security, and Junior Auror Minerva McGonagall was in charge of the newly appointed Commander in Chief’s security. As Chief Aurors McKinnon and Abbott were both reported missing in action, that post went to Albus Dumbledore.

The man had taken a few moments to himself and Minerva had discouraged the others from seeking out – at least for a few hours, to let him rest a bit. But she was extremely worried about him, the wizard who still remained their only chance against the Enemy.

That very wizard seemed to have succumbed to the horror of the attack. Sitting on the ground, his back leaning on the concrete of what remained of the façade wall of a tall building, Albus Dumbledore held his head in his hands. He could not understand how it had all gone so…

“Where did I make a mistake?” he thought “How could Gellert have known where to find us? And why bomb us? Why sacrifice the Germans artillery?” He had to admit it, even if it was only in the silence of his mind’s voice: he did not believe that this was a random bombing. It could not have been!

“No, it’s as if he wanted to draw us out like rats out of their hiding place…” he muttered. But if such was the case, and Dumbledore was certain that it was, how could Grindelwald have known their location? Was there a mole in the London HQ? He was sure that he could answer for all of his men. The spy in the _nid de vipères_ that was Command Central had to be the solution.

He sighed. The situation was still difficult to grasp. He was, quite simply, still in shock. How could it have happened? And how could Gellert have ordered it, he, the friend of his last year of relative innocence? He had learned of his deeds, had seen first-hand the result of Gellert’s onslaughts on some of their scouts, but, somehow, to have lived through one of these attacks… With a sigh, he realised that his friend was dead, and had been for decades. The young lad with that charming arrogance had disappeared.

“And so many lives lost…” he whispered.

“Professor?” gently said a female voice but he did not react “Professor Dumbledore?” she said again, this time lightly touching his arm.

Dumbledore raised his head and put down his arms with a sigh, obviously disgusted with what remained of his title. His eyes fell on a pair of emerald green ones, and he found himself drawn to them, incapable of looking away.

“Sir? I thought you should eat something. Here.” she whispered as she put a warm can in his hands. “It’s not much and probably tastes terrible, but it’s warm and reinvigorating, if nothing else.”

“Minerva?”

Of course, it had to be her, none of the others would have dared disturb him. Minerva had never been easily impressed, not even by him, not even when he was her teacher, and they had always shared a more particular relationship than that of teacher and pupil. Minerva had been his favourite. He had trained her in the difficult task of becoming an Animagus, had given her special projects to stimulate her intellect, and had shared tea with her – even when she had been that mere slip of a girl.

“Yes, Professor. You should eat something.”

“I’m not hu-“

“I don’t care if you’re not hungry, sir. I am in charge of your safety and, if you are to be able to function in a few hours, you need to eat.” She was firm, and it appeared to him that the matter was really non-negotiable. This woman would not take no for an answer.

Once again, that look in her eye. Once again, he could not tear his orbs away. And now, he felt like a naughty child scolded by his favourite school-mistress, or like Jane and Michael Banks after being chided by their nanny in the three P.L. Travers books. Still, he tried to smile, but in his miserable state, he barely managed a grimace. But Minerva did not seem to mind, and even smiled reassuringly. She was not offended! Oh, the relief! He did not think he could have born it otherwise.

“Professor, if you do not eat it, I will have to make you” she said teasingly, mock-glaring at him. He chuckled at that – to his ears, it sounded like the creaking of an old door- until he had to stop, overtaken by a none too glorious coughing fit. “Blasted dust!” he thought.

To make her happy, he decided to eat. It was no small feat: he choked on the lumpy mess, had to take time to breathe between gulps, and his hands were shaking. He thought he looked positively ridiculous and he felt awkward looking foolish in front of her although he did not know why. She left him to sleep. Watching her go, he felt disappointed but did not know why. It annoyed him.

Reclining against the uncomfortable wall, Albus closed his eyes. His newly discovered world had once again been shaken by the violence of the attack. Nevertheless, while worry still gnawed at him, he felt strangely at peace. The effects of her visit were remarkable. He did feel marginally better thanks to his former student’s care.

With his eyes closed, Albus could still see the emerald of Minerva’s fabulous orbs looking at him with some sort of undefinable tenderness. And he felt a strange longing, a curious ache constricting his chest. It was that queer sensation again, the one he could not quite place.

It was not the twinge that one experiences as one bids farewell to a student, not knowing when – or if – they will meet again. It was not the sting that follows the realisation that one’s student has grown up and is ready to enter the _real world_ : this bittersweet mix of sorrow and satisfaction as one notices that the favoured girl or boy is no longer going to look up to his or her teacher, that she will not tell him about this of that adventure anymore. The realisation that your gentle guiding ends on the last day of term, that this one dance at the Graduation Ball is your last exchange of wits, your last time to hear her engaging opinion.

No, those aches were always part of what made teaching both so satisfying and so depressing. In those particular instances, one never saw the favoured one as more than a pupil, i.e. as a child, an adult to be. But the strange longing that was overtaking Albus Dumbledore at the unexpected sight of his former pupil’s departing form after such gentle care had been of another, more basic kind. It had been primal, the longing of a man for his woman, a fool’s irrational desire that such care be reserved to him, that she not leave his side.

He still remembered the first time he had experienced those caveman instincts for Minerva McGonagall six months ago, although he had been unaware of her identity at the time – she had indeed changed since her years in his classroom.

He had been asked to come to the Command tent – actually, _summoned_ was probably a more apt description. After being announced by the mousy little thing that served as McKinnon’s PA, Albus had joined the Command Duo just as they were finishing with REC Team 1’s debriefing; their members had just returned from scouting the area surrounding the camp near a modest muggle town. He had immediately noted the posture, stiff yet regal, and the aristocratic head carriage. Her dark hair contained in a tight bun revealing an appetizing neck, the flash of her green eyes, the flush of her cheeks, the creamy white complexion, the soft bosom hidden behind layers of uniform… He was dazzled, taken in by her beauty. He felt it then, the longing, the constricting ache in his chest, the urge to kiss her. Had she been any other woman, had they been in any other situation, Albus Dumbledore would have flirted with her, courted her had she allowed it. But this was Minerva McGonagall, and this was war – a war that they were evidently losing -: those wants had no place there.

He had been embarrassed, and had even felt foolish when Abbott had made the introductions. And the way she had smiled at him then… in any case, there was really no point in dwelling about it, especially now.

Albus tried to forget the idiotic notions as he endeavoured to find sleep, remembering her gentle touch, and her gentle smile, a teasing light dancing brightly in the greenness of her gentle gaze. He fell asleep with her face floating on the quietened waters of his mind, even as a worry still gnawed at him… what if she was to die here? what then?


	5. Chapter 5

When Minerva arrived with Dumbledore at the new Command centre, raised voices could already be heard.

“Shafiq and Moody have decided to make my job hell!” she thought.

The newly appointed heads of security department and head of field troops were, it seems, at each other’s throats, while the Head of the Field Medics was holding in head in his hand – from despair or laughter, she did not know. Both Aurors were apparently disgruntled, and could not believe that, for once, they were not in agreement. Still, they had divergent opinions, and would apparently not change them to appease the other, which, to Minerva, was both a relief and the beginning of a migraine. She was torn between the urge of groaning aloud at their stupidity, of rolling her eyes, and the urge to yell at them for their lack of deportment and of momentum: this was no time to act like schoolchildren.

“I see that you were both impatient to begin this meeting, Auror Shafiq, Auror Moody, but you did not have to shout it to any German in the vicinity.” she said acidly. Dumbledore had to reign in a chuckle at the stunned look on the other men’s faces. They had obviously not met Minerva McGonagall, the Head Girl extraordinaire…

“Auror Shafiq, Auror Moody, we find ourselves in a dire situation, indeed. Discussion is the key to survival. Unity is the only way to success.”

Feeling like schoolchildren, the two Aurors both blushed slightly under Minerva and Albus’ gazes, but looked straight ahead, their postures stiff.

“Sir” began Moody “the Enemy has found our camp and driven us away from it. And while we’re wasting time here organising our provisory camp, we’re a bunch of sitting ducks… Decimated sitting ducks! I say we attack him now.”

“But not without having something to fall back on in case of a retreat, or a Hospital Ward, or even simply scouting the area around his castle, Moody!” replied Shafiq “You’ll get us all killed!”

“I agree with Auror Shafiq, sir” interjected Minerva, who could see Moody preparing a retort “Without reconnaissance, we have no way of knowing what lies in store for us around Grindelwald’s castle.”

“But …”

“Alastor, Hyerolamus and Minerva are right. We cannot rush head-in into danger. We need some knowledge of the place.” He turned towards the six remaining members of REC Team 2 “You’ll go there in three groups. I want all the usual, the general layout of the castle, the various accesses, the obstacles we might encounter, the potential traps and the number and frequency of sentries, etc. Be even more vigilant than before, they are sure to expect an action of this sort. I’m counting on you six, we cannot risk any more men in any kind of attack if we do not know anything of the enemy’s position.”

After the team had been sent out, O’Clare, Moody, Shafiq, Dumbledore and McGonagall made a count of all the people who could join the three Aurors and the Professor on the field; they were thirty-seven, including REC Team 2. It would not be a good ratio. They furtively glanced at each other around the place; fighting outnumbered was not an engaging prospect.

Indeed, those who were injured were in the care of others, whose time they monopolised. The remaining administrative corps had been put to work alongside the Field Nurses or at the food distribution. There was, however, no hope of contacting the London HQ for help, a change of troops or anything else. No, to give away their location now was tantamount to suicide.

Now that they had finished preparing all that they could, the waiting game began, and with it arrived the worrisome thoughts that plagued any kind of vigil. It was the part that Minerva detested the most before any battle: the “eve”.

A fog descended upon the land, and upon the brains of the witches and wizards of the British Wizarding Forces. The men and women guarding the area, huddled against destroyed walls, keeping watch on the injured, or praying for the success of the reconnaissance mission were all of them wondering if they were going to survive the day.

Humidity permeated the cold morning air; dew’s dirty beads pierced through the uniforms. The cold gripped the bones and the hearts of men and women. They felt like the diseased and rare remaining members of a people, long extinct, hunted through the shadows. Dawn was cold that morning, and the red sun, annunciator of a blood-soaked day, could not warm their hearts.

Although he was no believer, Albus found himself praying to survive the oncoming storm and go back home or, if he was taken here, in the shelter, for a quick death.

They were in the eye of the storm, at the “eve” of the battle, reflected Minerva. “The eerie atmosphere only leaves us with one certainty” she whispered, looking to the bloody sun, “that this day shall bring Death to all of us, friends or foes…”


	6. Chapter 6

The smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh was everywhere. It invaded Minerva’s nostrils, and left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was like there were cinders on her tongue and it made her nauseous.

The fog was still upon them. This could be no natural phenomenon, not at this time of the afternoon. At least, she thought it was afternoon. The fog was so thick one could barely see two feet beyond. No, it could not be natural. It was probably one of the mechanisms of defence reported by REC Team 2. But she had no time to think on the whys and hows now. There was a strange silence, the atmosphere was eerie. She had to press on, and find her way back to the others.

They had decided – well, Dumbledore, Moody and Shafiq had – to divide their forces in three groups. Two would provide a diversion while the third one, with Dumbledore, was to infiltrate the fortress by one of the tunnels. They would take out the Enemy from inside his walls. The idea was that as Grindelwald’s men were occupied, Dumbledore would find him more easily and take him out while the Aurors took care of his men. Minerva had been placed in Moody’s team, the one attacking the Western wall.

But as soon as they had arrived, a strange fog had appeared. It had disoriented them and now, she found herself alone in the desolate valley.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

A cry echoed in the field. A man’s voice, although she did not seem to remember whose it was. She forgot everything her instructor had taught her and ran, not caring about any potential trap. She was not running on the direction she had thought she came from, but towards the sound: there was no way of knowing where she would end up if she tried to get away from the field.

Minerva ran and ran. She could hear the echo of her feet on the soggy earth. She could feel scratches from things that seemed to be branches; her dishevelled hair whip around her neck and cheeks. Things tried to grab her but still, she went on. A white mist was covering her vision, beads of sweat were rolling down her back and her forehead. The scream could still be heard.

She suddenly collided with something. The scream stopped. She opened her eyes and screamed. It was bloodcurdling, and she prayed for it to stop. But she felt as if the voice was not her own, as if she was out of her own body – or as if it did not answer to her anymore. Minerva put her fist in her mouth and clamped down her teeth on it. She drew blood, but the pain helped: she could feel her brain coming back to life, her mind functioning again. “What the hell is in that fog?!” she thought.

Once more, she tried to focus on the object she had crashed into. An Auror. Donovan? Or what was left of him. His skin was waxy, and as white as a sheet, almost reflecting the dim light. The formerly brown eyes were hanging down from the gaping wounds of the sockets. The throat seemed to have been ripped out from the inside out, leaving only his trachea and vocal cords apparent. His torso was one gaping wound, and his arms and legs, bent at unnatural angles told everything that had happened to him. She saw one eye roll against his bleeding cheek, and heaved. She threw up on the ashen grass. Sick. This was sick. Was he even dead?

A piercing scream rang to her right just as she was wiping away the remaining vomit. Donovan’s corpse was screaming! and moving … his arms and legs? She could hear movement around her and whipped her head around. There they were, the other moving corpses.

“Shit! An Inferi swarm!” She looked around, and saw they were trying to move in on her. She cursed under her breath, then turned to Donovan again. “Sorry, Donovan. _Incendio!_ ”

He immediately caught fire, and the others receded. She had to force herself to stop heaving, the smell of his burning flesh was potent, and made her want to throw up again. The smoke brought tears to her eyes. She looked behind her, the Inferi were waiting for the ambient humidity to extinguish the fire.

Minerva willed herself to move away, right in the direction of the fire. As she passed by the burning corpse, she had a thought for her colleague.

She was running again. She did not look back. Not on Donovan, and not on the Inferi. A swarm. Her only hope had been to run away when they had been afraid of the fire. She had not dared transforming into a cat. Not while they could see her. Their maker could always access the information they saw; it was too great a risk.

Was she far away enough? Had they tried to follow her? She had no way of knowing any of that now. For some reason, however, Minerva felt the irrational need to stay in her human form, as she ran through the First Circle of Grindelwald’s Hell.

After a while – at this point, she had no sense of time, and was too scared to even look at her watch -, the fog cleared. It only made her unease grow… What other gruesome nightmares were waiting for her in this tableau created for the amusement of a Baxterian mind?

Now, Minerva could see as clearly as one could in the shadowy end of an April afternoon. She could see part of a wall – the Western wall, she hoped-. The grey stones held together by some sort of grey mortar. Hanging from it were rusty cells, creaking in the breeze, not – as she had believed – the rotting corpses of tortured prisoners, their bones barely keeping together. She turned her head to the right and gasped. A hole had been blasted, and it now looked as if the wall had sustained heavy injury, leaving it with a gaping wound.

She started to run – again forgetting all caution -, but stopped right away. She quickly looked to the top of the wall, but could see no one about on the walkway. Still, she proceeded quickly but cautiously to one side of the hole, and froze.

The black dirt was muddy, probably because of the blood shed here, almost disappeared under the amount of corpses. Men and women, friends and foes, today’s sun certainly had kept her promise. She walked through Death’s path, unable to look away from the result of the earlier bloodshed.

Some people had the stunned look and contorted members of those who had been projected to the ground and died upon impact. She could see the scene: Moody and some of his men blasting the wall open while the others covered them – she could see the rocks laying all around the courtyard. The violence, the strength of the impact… She raised her head. One man had been projected to the wall behind and had stayed there, impaled on a metal spear. She bit her lips in horror. The man looked even younger than her. His eyes were wide open, and his mouth had coughed up blood. It had run down on his chest… it looked still fresh. She closed her eyes, but in doing so, looked down again at the corpses at her feet.

Among the fallen, some others had sustained heavy flesh wounds, and subsequently died of haemorrhage. Their blood had been gobbled up by the nefarious ground. Some had the rolled back eyes of the tortured; some the look of _Avada Kedavra_ victims… a quick painless death, at least.

Minerva had finally managed to join the opposite wall. There were bodies there too. One was a woman, blond, fair skin, wearing the tatters of a … Field Nurse dress. She examined her face again… Yes, behind the dirt and blood, she could still recognise…

“Poppy! Poppy!” she said, shaking the woman awake.

Poppy frowned, shook her head, opened her eyes and… screamed. Puzzled, Minerva turned around and…

“Moody!”

“McGonagall!” They lowered their wands and examined each other. She could see Moody had sustained quite a few injuries, no doubt received in the midst of a battle. Something was embedded in his left leg, and his left eye was bleeding. Recovering her wits, Poppy immediately began taking care of his wounds while Minerva bombarded him with questions:

“Where are the others? Who else is alive? Where’s Dumbledore?”


	7. Chapter 7

There was no word for the ominous feeling that had descended upon Albus Dumbledore as they made up the plans for the attack on Grindelwald’s castle. As soon as it had dawned upon him that he would have to face Gellert – something he had been putting off since their tragic last encounter -, he had dreaded the moment he would see him again. They had not met since the tragic day that had marked the end of his own arrogant youth, the deaths of his dear mother and sister. Such a strange thing it had been; such odd feelings had overcome him. He had not been able to face him then, had not been able to harm him – although he had entertained the idea in quite a few violent fantasies the times he had listened to what whispered the dark corners of his soul. He was not sure he could harm him now. After all, the man had been his friend, misguided though that friendship had been. The deaths of his mother and sister still weighed heavily on his mind. He still felt guilty, and it was guilt that had made him begin to help the war effort. The recent slaughter of his men only added to his unease: would he let his people down again? They were counting on him, and now, even more than before, it was… difficult.

He felt eyes upon him, then. He turned his face to look at the beholder. “Ah! Of course, the ever-perceptive Minerva… Of course, she would have noticed something!” Her eyes entrapped him in her gaze, and they remained in his mind, swimming at the surface. And although they were intrigued, not accusatory, he felt even guiltier than before. How could he ever doubt to do the right thing? Her gaze had his mind enchained for hours. His body functioned, his voice talked, but he was unaware of what he was saying, almost as if he was out of his own body.

When the mist of Albus’ mind cleared out, he and his men were on the grounds of Grindelwald’s castle, a grotesquely imposing grey mammoth of a castle, 15th century, he noticed distractedly. They had walked around it, and were now at the base of the little cliff upon which reposed the fort’s walls and large tower. No, reposed was not the right word. They almost seemed to have grown from the rock, like a strange looking plant. He could not determine the type of stone and the ensemble looked organic – for stone.

A strange mist, more a fog, really, had descended upon the other part of the field. They could not see their companions, or understand any of the battle that was going on, but Albus and his men could hear the echo of the cries of men and women, of the sizzling magic of spells cast at one another.

On their side of the ground, however, no sound could be heard. It was eerily quiet, and no one was about on that side of the wall, no window showed light to announce anyone’s presence. This part of the castle seemed to be completely deserted and Albus’ unease only grew stronger. He felt like the fly that walks knowingly into the spider’s lair. He was sure that there was some sort of trap waiting for them, but they had no choice, they had to go in, and the tunnel was there. The two scouts he had sent out to check the area had even come back unharmed: the coast was clear. With the heavy feeling that he was making a grave mistake, Albus gestured to his men to follow him, and they entered the tunnel, wands at the ready.

Usually, they would have disillusioned each other, but the darkness of the tunnel was so absolute, that they did not need to. They dared not use the _Lumos_ spell, to make light from their wands. If they disturbed whatever might be hiding there, who knew what could befall them?

The walls did not look manmade. Rather, the tunnel seemed to have been created naturally, from the eroding work of the water, or as if the stone had naturally grown this way. As soon as they were all in, the tunnel closed itself, and they found themselves en route to their personal circle of Hell.

First, the temperature dropped. Not enough to make them freeze, but enough to make them uncomfortable, to make them shiver in the humid atmosphere. When they put their hands on the walls to steady themselves in the dark, they could feel drops rolling down the walls of the cave. As they walked, they could feel some sort of slimy damp moss or strange fungus clinging to their feet.

Then, voices began to talk. Whispers. Charming voices. A chorus. Soft Sweet. Delicate. Ensnaring them to do their bidding.

_“Kill…”_

_“Kill…”_

_“Kill…”_ they asked with deceptive gentleness. _“He’s here now. Kill…. him… Yes, him.”_ Their intensity began to grow into a crescendo, the pressure on the men’s minds intensified, they began to smile to each other in a sick way, showing their teeth. Pointing their wands at each other, they began to make light and, with a shiver, Albus realised what would happen. He could see the crazed glint in their eyes, the white flash of the teeth.

“Don’t listen! Don’t listen to the voices! Cover your ears!” he cried.

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ two men cast the curse at each other, and the frenzy began. Friend was turning on friend. He had to find something. Yelling at them only seemed to spur them on, and the voices became louder and louder. He could feel the pressure to enter his mind. He had to be quick. He started muttered spells and waving his wand at the walls. They started to emit some sort of blue light, then the voices turned to one single piercing scream. It rang on and on for a few minutes and, for a moment, Albus was sure that he had triggered an alarm. It grew in strength and he feared for his ears. The cry resembled that of a living woman, he thought, letting out the testament of her agony.

It suddenly stopped. His wand waving might have done something after all… He turned around and felt instant relief. The men seemed to be back to their senses.

He could feel their anguish, but knew he would have no time to address it now. He led them through the dark tunnels, and they did not stop, or ask questions, although they were smarming in their minds. Their training made sure that they would recognise that now was not the time for it. After a long while in the dark, they were relieved when they saw the light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. But Albus was concerned. Was it the end of the tunnel, or simply another trap? What would be waiting for them in the torches’ light? He did not know, and was beginning to think that he should have gone in alone. He had a feeling that the twisted mind that had come up with that cruel and calculated way to end his enemies still had more in store for them.

As soon as they exited the tunnel, it became apparent that he was right: the trap was still in motion. The place they found themselves in now was apparently underground, if one could trust the total lack of window, and the fetid air. A few minutes’ walk, and they understood exactly where they were: Grindelwald’s cells.

The stench was increasing with each pace they took, and the bodies in the cells exhaled some pungent atmosphere of unwholesomeness. One could not know whether they might be called people, for they seemed to be barely alive – and that had to be more a curse than a miracle. Indeed, they were badly deformed. They were bald, scars were crisscrossing their white naked torsos and their lips and jaws. Their limbs were bent at odd angles, but it did not look like torture was the cause of their deformity. No, they looked to have been grown – or maybe regrown – that way.

Apparently, Grindelwald’s fascination with Dark Magic also applied to creatures, not only to refined spell casting. The bodies in the cells were slowly opening their milky red eyes and were starting to look at them as a meat lover might hungrily gaze at a particularly juicy steak that passes him by. Their mouths were beginning to water, and the men’s throats were beginning to be constricted by fear.

The biggest, hungriest one – was he the pack leader? – launched himself against the iron bars of his cell. His body collided with them in a sickening crunch, and his deformed jaws let out a strangled groan. Then, he swayed his from side to side like a snake, a sick gleam in his blood tinted orbs. The muscles and flesh of his face seemed to bubble under the taut skin, then the bones reset themselves in a cringing creaking. Finally, something seemed to take life in his mouth. Dumbledore and his men could only watch, half fascinated and half sick at heart, how the green appendix that had to serve as the creature’s tongue was launched out with an awful slurping noise.

It latched itself in the throat of one of the Aurors before any of them could react, and began to pump something out of him.

“ _Diffindo!!_ ” yelled one of his colleagues as the man emitted strange painful groans.

“Everyone keep an eye on the creatures!” ordered Dumbledore before turning to the young man “Carter, Carter, my boy, can you hear me?”

The appendix, now separated from the main body, had stopped suckling, but it would not let go of Carter. No matter how much the poor man shook his head or tried to grip it, the appendix was gnawed in firmly and would not move. The poor man’s eyes had taken a scared and crazed look. He seemed to suffer tremendous pain because of whatever poison the _thing_ was injecting him.

“S-s-si-r-r-r” he managed to say in a raspy voice “S-s-ir-r, p-please”

For a few seconds, Albus did not understand, then he noticed the young man’s skin turning ashen, his limbs beginning to contort strangely, the nails lengthening to become some sort of claws. He looked back to Carter’s eyes, just as he managed to cry out “Sir!!! Please!!” in utter desperation.

 _“Avada Kedavra”_ the emerald green bolt flew from Dumbledore’s wand with a mere whisper, granting the young Auror as quick and painless a death as possible. They all closed their eyes for a moment and, as they looked at him, it seemed the men understood.

 _“Incendio”_ he whispered, and the body instantly caught fire, making sure that the creatures would not devour it.

No one commented, and they quickly marched out of the premises. They walked through various experiment rooms, taking out Grindelwald’s mad alchemists that had stayed there to ensure their defeat, and putting in chains the occasional yielders. They were also on the lookout for prisoners, but it seemed their cells where on other floors.

As they neared the Great Hall, Albus sent out his team to search for them, preferring to enter the Hall alone. Such had always been his plan: to find Gellert and challenge him alone. He suspected that the other man was waiting for him in the middle of the room. He was resolute now, he marched down the hallways with his jaw set, his wand secure in his hand. There was no doubt in his mind that he would face his former friend and end his reign of horror, or die trying.

“Ah! Albus, wilkommen! Wilkommen, old chap! As you can see” he said gesturing to the apparently deserted room “I was expecting your visit”

“Grindelwald”

“But you are so late… Too late to stop me, now, my Kingdom may lie in ruins, but I am more powerful than even you, old friend. I shall still be standing when my Castle is dead. And when you are destroyed, my dear fellow, I shall still take over your beloved country.”

“You won’t be able to kill me. I shall be the one to end your reign…”

“No, Albus. You won’t destroy me. I will destroy you. You, old chap, will soon be as dead as your mother and sister…” said Grindelwald, quite amused at the little display of patriotic ire of his foe. “By the way, Albus, did you enjoy your little visit to my pets? I hope they weren’t too rude to you and your little men… I’m told the poor things had not had anything to eat today…” he whispered with a bright smile.

“You… Bastard!! _Flippendo!_ ”


	8. Chapter 8

Minerva could hear a noise, like thunder. Two entities whose contact made the air charged with static electricity, had to be crashing into each other. She immediately thought of Albus Dumbledore, and wished him to survive the ongoing battle. As she raced in the hallways, stunning some German guards along the way, she could feel her heart beating madly through her chest with adrenalin and worry. All she knew was that Dumbledore – she did not dare to call him Albus, even privately – was alive.

She entered the Great Hall and regained her breath as she tried to understand their forces’ situation. In the middle of the room, Grindelwald and Dumbledore were fighting. She could see their magic sizzle, crackle as they seemed to be duelling to the death. All around them, spells were hurled and, with the noises of impacts, it was as if a madman had let loose fireworks. No team seemed to be winning for the moment, and the violence of the spellcasting was altogether frightening.

A particularly ugly German guard threw a powerful curse at one of the Aurors, and threw him to the ground, blood spurting from invisible wounds all over his body. She shook awake from her daze and launched herself into the battle, casting curse and jinx after hex at the German.

Albus’ fight had reached a stalemate. Gellert had begun by sending out a fireball, quickly returned to him by Dumbledore after some rapid wand waving. A canon ball was then headed to the German’s face. The self-proclaimed Dark Lord did not depart from his crazed smile and self-assuredness, and turned it to dust. Then, he sent it back to his foe, under the shape of a black mist that had enveloped Dumbledore before solidifying into a black bubble hard as a diamond and a malignant shade of purple.

For a moment, Grindelwald was sure of his victory. Yes! He had him! The bubble would consume Dumbledore’s life force, and transfer all his magic to him, Grindelwald, making him even more powerful. He broke in hives, taken over by a hysterical laugh. To think that a brain like Albus Dumbledore’s had been defeated by such an old trick!! He sobered up quickly. “How disappointing, Albus!” he said, looking quite crushed – one did not find stimulating archenemies like Albus quite so easily.

Suddenly, to the Dark Wizard’s delight, the bubble seemed to buzz. It began to shake, and a faint light appeared inside. Under Grindelwald’s excited gaze, it buzzed and buzzed until it exploded, sending out shards in every direction, shattering against the walls like crystal. A German guard received one in the eye, and one in the throat. He died of haemorrhage in the following minute, coughing up a stream of blood under the gaze of a shocked Dumbledore…

Taking advantage of his adversary’s inattention, Grindelwald sent out one of the shards to him, transforming it into a black dagger. Dumbledore barely stepped out of its way, feeling the cold blade graze his cheek… He raised his wand and waved it in a complicated manner as the air crackled around him.

It was in the middle of this that Minerva had arrived. Their fight had redoubled in intensity, but she was too busy to notice now: the German that she was fighting was certainly strong. The rush of rage she had felt when her comrade had been killed had long disappeared, and without the adrenalin rush, she found herself struggling to keep up with her adversary’s tempo. It did not help, of course, that the wizard was one of the Elite of Grindelwald’s followers, and was thus even more ruthless and experienced in duelling than the others. She could not seem to anticipate or take the offensive. She was defending, and that was never a good thing. The guard alternated quick casts of jinxes and curses that her rapidly fired _Protego_ barely deflected, before sending out a curse of a far higher strength. He made some signs in the air then sent the curse toward her, and it was all she could do to evade it. Nevertheless, she had to take the upper-hand, or she would die – and it probably would not be quick or painless either.

She had to distract him somehow. While she was deflecting one of his jinxes, she let him touch her. She began to choke. Panic rose inside of her as she looked at the wizard in front of her, smiling. While his guard was down, she quickly fired a cocktail of _Furnunculus_ and _Tarantallegra. “Finite incantatem”_ she thought, pointing her wand at herself. The man in front of her could not seem to regain his wits, and she finished him with a quick Knockback jinx which projected him to the other end of the wall. “Minerva McGonagall, winner by K.O.” she thought wryly. Then, she turned around and …

“ _Stupefy!”_ she cried. The Auror who had been facing a particularly ruthless guard looked around and gave her a thankful nod.

Just as they were about to go help their colleagues, the Earth began to shake with a terrifying crack. It was the agonising moan of stone rubbing against stone, as the ground was separating itself. A cleft began to appear in the paving, while the walls and roof began to shake, and collapse around them. Minerva, the Aurors and the guards, could only watch, helpless, as Dumbledore and Grindelwald were enclosed in a circle of falling boulders.

“Get them out!” she yelled at her colleague, gesturing wildly at the other Aurors, struggling to make herself understood over the noise.

“And you?! McGonagall, you can’t stay here!!”

“Just get them out!!” she said, running to the other side of the room, avoiding the falling rocks.

“Damn stubborn girl!!” He rallied the others, and they ran out of the room. There was nothing he could do for her now, she was too far away.

Minerva could not have explained it, not even to herself, not even months later, when she thought about it, that feeling of dread that had taken her as she saw Albus Dumbledore amid falling rocks. She thought that he would surely die, and she could not let that happen. She had seen him before he went, he had the look of someone who did not expect to return from the fight. But she could not let that happen. So, she had crossed the room.

“Not that I could help him much” she thought “but maybe I can do something…”

She was standing next to the circle, and they did not see her. With the stonefall, it was nigh impossible to see anything. Dumbledore raised his hand, Grindelwald launched a powerful curse, and she intercepted it with one of her own, a blue bolt touching the green one and sending it crashing to the wall, blasting a hole in it.

The men turned their heads towards her.

“Minerva!!” he cried, quite shocked.

Grindelwald laughed at the anguish slowly appearing on the other wizard’s face, and sent out a rock towards her so quickly that she did not have the time to move fast enough. It broke her left arm, shoulder and some ribs. She coughed up blood, feeling dizzy, the pain made hr breathless, and she felt unable to move. She lost consciousness, the sound of falling rocks and voices echoing in her ears.

“You, bastard!!”

“Now, now, Albus, my parentage has nothing to do with your little friend”

“You- “

“Such eloquence, old chap! I wonder if you were that loquacious when you found my little letter on the kitchen counter next to your mother and sister’s corpses… What when you’ll say when I kill this one?”

“Why…? She’s nothing to you!”

“Well, of course, not. But she is important to you, just like you loved your mother and sister. Now, I wonder, how does it feel to know that you killed this woman?”

“You’re the one who killed them! Why? What did they ever do to you?!”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. That is precisely what makes it so entertaining!” he laughed like a maniac while Dumbledore brought the roof down on them, only minding that Minerva got protected from the remaining rocks. He had come to care a lot for the young woman, and did not want her hurt any further.

When stones fell on his own body, Gellert Grindelwald did not cry out. Albus Dumbledore’s jaw tightened even more when he saw the body break, heard the bones shatter, watched the blood fly out around the room, the mush of skull, blood and brain decorating his robes.

Albus looked up. He could see rocks coming for him too. One fell on his right knee, and he felt it shatter. He screamed out in pain and fell to the ground, content to die here and rest for eternity.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing Albus Dumbledore saw as he opened his eyes was a blinding white light. He automatically closed them again. He felt as if his retinas had been pierced by lightning bolts and his head was killing him. What on earth had fallen on him?

The second thing he noticed was that everything hurt. Not as if he had had a good work out and simply suffered from muscle pains, but as if his left leg had been torn from its socket and the bone had been mashed with a meat tenderizer, as if his chest had been crushed by a boulder, and as if his right shoulder had also suffered extensive damage.

Through the haze of his pain, Albus could only wonder what had happened to him. He had no recollection of anything. He tried to open his eyes again, and had to blink repetitively to fend off the offending brightness of the lamp. Then, he felt something gently pricking his arm, and pain relief floated though his veins, leaving his head fuzzy, but able to function in some capacity. He also noticed that the lights had been dimmed enough that he could open his eyes without being uncomfortable. It reassured him. Someone who cared enough about his comfort to ensure that he was free of pain, and that the light was not too strong could not wish him ill.

However, the question remained. Where was he? He tried to turn his head and assess his surroundings, but it only served to make him dizzy and increase that throbbing that threatened to destroy the remains of his poor brain.

He heard a muffled voice. Someone was trying to tell him something, but he was still too disoriented to make out anything from it, but an offending sound. He tried to ask where he was, but his throat was too dry; he only emitted raspy moans.

He was somewhat aware of the presence of another person in the room., but could not process much else. His awakening and resulting pains, had him in sensory overload.

The presence was coming closer. His heartrate increased. He did not know anything, and it was making him vulnerable. Something cold was deposited on his parched lips. No. Not cold. Freezing. And wet, like… Ice. He opened his lips as much he could and the ice chip fell in his mouth. He slowly sucked it, then moved on to another, and then another, until his thirst was abated. The fresh liquid was like a balm on his abused throat. Tired, he drifted off again.

The next Albus awoke, the lights were not as bright as they had been the first time, and he was immensely grateful for that. It was also very comforting. Wherever he was, he was still safe. Slightly reassured, Albus Dumbledore assessed his physical state. The throbbing in his head had reduced to a dull pain, and he could move his head about if he minded the speed. H tried to move his arms and legs: he could do so without trouble, although they were still very sore.

Glad that he was not restrained, Albus tried to reach a more upright position, from where he could see what was going on. He had no sooner propelled himself up on his elbows that he fell back down again. The air itself was too painful to breathe in. His chest still felt like a boa was crushing it.

Once again, the pain made him dizzy, and his vision blurred. What shapes and colours he could discern – white walls, a catheter and a pouch full of liquid, the standard brown wool cover, pointed to a hospital room. The person – probably a nurse – click clacked toward him again and pressed a few buttons. Immediately, he felt the light pricking, annunciator of _Oh yes!_ _Pain relief!_ He was out again in a few minutes.

………………………………………………………….

After the fight, a fresh rescue team accompanied by medics had been sent by Headquarters. They had scoured the fort, and found Grindelwald’s gruesome squished remains. They had recovered the body of his greatest foe and that of a young Junior Auror, who had gone beyond the call of duty that day.

The priority had been to transport the survivors to safety and thence to a hospital while the recovery team dealt with Grindelwald’s _eccentricities_. The injured had briefly stayed in France before being accompanied to Saint Mungo’s by portkeys.

During Albus’ first days at the Wizarding hospital, the healers had believed that the saviour of their world was going to die on them. His heart stopped multiple times, and the extent of his injury made everyone doubtful of a complete recovery. His left femur was shattered and torn out of its socket, his ribcage was crushed and it was nothing short of a miracle that his lungs had not been punctured, and his right shoulder looked destroyed. His hard head had also taken quite the boulder. Yes, for most of the healers, their first sight of the newly proclaimed _Saviour of the Wizarding World_ was a broken body.

They had been especially waspish at the way he had been brought to them: they believed his injuries might have worsened during the journey. Why a Portkey for the patients? What had happened to transporting the healers to the sick and injured, then transport everyone on a big boat, to ensure that the patients were stabilised? The muggles did it, and it did not work that badly, right?

Over the course of a few days, they had managed to stabilise him and, a week after he had arrived, his body was faring much better. His living prospects had improved by fifty percent, and they were no longer afraid that his heart would stop in his sleep. His ribcage and leg were still difficult cases, but would heal nicely thanks to the many potions and spells available to the healers. It was around that time that Dumbledore awoke for the first time. Then, he drifted in and out of sleep for a while, groggy and disoriented by the pain potions in his bloodstream.

…………………………………………………………….

The newt time Albus awakened properly. He felt considerably better: his head no longer throbbed – although it was still woozy -, and he _drank_ the water instead of sucking of ice chips – drinking with a straw _was_ a victory. The pain in his ribcage has been reduced to a dull ache, a sure sign that it was healing, and, with the nurse’s help, Albus even managed to sit up and breathe somewhat properly. For the first time, he could eat, and was received the visit of the healers in charge of his case: Chief Field Medic O’Clare and Healer Jenkins.

The men had been called by the enthusiastic and boisterous nurse guarding him for the day, claiming that _he_ was awake A few minutes later, they strode in…

“Good morning, Commander in Chief, sir” said O’Clare, the tallest of the two, who had a bushy dark blond moustache. “How are you feeling today?”

“Well, I can sit up with the nurse’s help, and my body doesn’t feel like it’s shattering in a million painful pieces, so I guess I’m better” replied the patient, whose position did little to put him in a good mood.

“It is indeed a very good sign” replied O’Clare. Dumbledore’s sarcasm had not been lost on him, but he was used to worst from seasoned veterans. It did not bother him. “Let me introduce you to Healer Jenkins, one of the foremost healers here in St Mungo’s, and the head of Trauma Department. We owe him marvellous advances in the realm of pain-relief potions.”

“So it’s to you that I owe the relief from the feeling that my body was being disjointed by meat cleavers? Thanks” Once again, he could not hold a sarcastic repartee. It was as if O’Clare was trying to avoid talking to him about his physical state, _tentait de noyer le poisson_ as the French would have said.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Professor, even under those circumstances” said a nicely chubby man with a full head of chestnut brown hair. Although Albus was downright sour that they did dive straight into business, something in the healer’s manner inspired trust and he managed to calm down.

“Healer Jenkins”

The two blue-robed men checked his vitals, his reactions to stimuli, etc., and when they were finished with him, he felt as poked and prodded as last Christmas’ turkey. He felt frustrated again. He had hoped that it would be quick. He wanted out.

“So healers, will I live?” he asked as acidly as a man could from the confines of a hospital bed.

The two others shared a somewhat contrite expression, and O’Clare sighed.

“Sir, for quite some time, we were not sure that you would make it…”

Albus’ eyes widened. He had not thought the extent of his injuries to be that severe. Properly chastised, he felt as if Minerva had told him off for one of his poor jokes. Suddenly feeling a irrepressible urge to see her, he listened carefully to what the healers had to say.

“Professor Dumbledore, most of your injuries have healed properly so far. When you were brought in, you had extensive damage done to your left leg, right shoulder, ribcage, and a serious bump on the head, no doubt done by the falling rocks. Your body’s recovery is quite satisfactory. The broken bones have healed, and what inconvenience you still feel is due to the regrowth of new muscle tissue, nerves and tendons. In fact, in about a week, even your ribcage should be as good as new.” Explained Healer Jenkins.

“We also took you off the morphia yesterday, sir.” added the Field Medic. “since morphia-based pain medicine has been known to be addictive after a while, and you no longer required it”

Albus knew that the culprit for his deep slumber and blanked out awakened moments were probably a combination of the morphia _and_ his injuries. He did not miss it one bit. He liked to be in control of his body, his reactions and his magic. Besides, he wanted to see how Minerva was doing, and he needed his wits for that visit. He knew she had come right into the battle, and had interfered with one of Gellert’s spells, therefore saving his life. And he cared for the young woman. He had to see her.

“Alright then, and when will I be let out of this bed, healers?”

“Tomorrow, if you feel up to it, you may take a stroll up and down the corridor with Nurse Pomfrey.” replied O’Clare.

“A most level-headed young lady” added Jenkins approvingly.

Seeing Albus’ look of total incomprehension at Jenkins’ reply, they explained to him that fan mail and presents had been flooding the hospital’s mail system. There were also hate mail and threats, but the real danger seemed to come from the squealing wizards and witches of impressionable character who had developed a kind of _hero-worship_ for him. The idea left a bad taste in his mouth, and he found himself once again wishing he could go see Minerva. _Her_ levelheadedness would surely calm him down – which was one way of saying that she would tell him off for acting like a child and send him back to his bed to rest immediately.

“Professor? Professor?”

He was shaken out of his reverie by Healer Jenkins’ voice.

“I apologise, healer, you were saying?”

“That you must refrain from using your magic for the next few days. It has to recover from your ordeal, just like your body is doing, right now.”

“So, no magic?” he said, pouting.

“No magic for the next three days, sir” said the medic “And after that, we will start on magical re-education, working from basic spells to the most complicated ones. But don’t worry, you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

O’Clare’s moustache was bristling, a sure sign that he was smiling. Oddly enough, it reassured Albus. His magic was not lost, just out of synch, and he would recover quickly enough. The wizard’s relief only lasted a few moments, though. Just as the healers were taking leave, the boisterous young nurse was back to announce his doom: his brother was coming to visit. He _had_ hoped to be in better shape before he met his brother. The meeting did not bode well for his tired old bones…


End file.
